


Sins of the Daughter

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Boot Worship, Cunnilingus, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Genital Torture, Knifeplay, Maledom/Femsub, Military Background, Nipple Clamps, Painful Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Praise Kink, Rape as Revenge, Sensory Deprivation, Solitary Confinement, Torture, Unaroused Victim, Vaginal Sex, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-12 07:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When the General's daughter and best recruit is revealed as a double agent, he takes his revenge.





	Sins of the Daughter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radioqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioqueen/gifts).



> As you can probably tell, I was super enamored with your Male General/Female Spy prompt, and I really wanted to write you something for it! Hope you like it.
> 
> As a content note that didn't fit in the tags: there's a brief mention of impregnation.

Lieutenant Vanessa Martin's cover was blown in the middle of a hot, muggy summer, on the kind of moon-kissed evening better suited to nights on the bayou than escaping from a military complex. She'd been drowsing in her bunk, fresh from the mess, a little drunk and a little too unaware of her surroundings. In the end, that was her downfall; if she'd just gotten to her phone that much sooner, been warned that much earlier—

It didn't matter. What mattered was this: during the time she should have been grabbing her bug-out bag and getting the fuck out of the facility, she wasn't paying attention, even though her phone had been chiming at her incessantly from the pocket of her discarded uniform for a while. It took her at least two minutes to process the sound. Not her usual ringtone; no, this was a very particular ringtone assigned to a very particular person, and there was only one reason why they would be contacting her now. The realization percolated through her veins like icewater. She slid off the bed and grabbed at her uniform, fumbling the phone out of her pocket. The message on the screen flung her from tipsy to stone-cold sober with the shock of a car crash.

_Run._

Martin did the sensible thing first and smashed the phone—any incriminating evidence could be thoroughly destroyed through brute force if you tried hard enough. She yanked on her pants, next, then ran for her locker and grabbed her bug-out bag, complete with rations, ammunition, civilian clothing, and her 9mm Glock 17. She spent a moment clutching the bag to her chest, her breath rasping through her throat, agonizing indecision freezing her limbs while she stared into the locker as if it were a black hole her gaze couldn't escape. Shivers raced up and down her spine and she thought, _This is it. This is it. Pull it together, girl, because this is_ it. _Now get moving!_

She got moving. In fact, she moved too quickly; she flung open the door and ran straight into the tree-trunk body of Walter Eisenberg.

"Hey hey, Martin," he said, steadying her with two giant hands on her shoulders. "What's the rush?"

"Got to use the head," she said snappishly, the tension dripping from her voice. "That OK with you?"

If asked, she could have pinpointed the exact moment she knew she was fucked: it was when Eisenberg gave her a contemplative look and shook his head slowly.

_Oh shit._

"Sorry, Martin," he said, and over his shoulders she saw the shadows of her squad crowding around him. How did they know so fast? Were they sitting on the knowledge all through dinner and the drinking games that came after? "Heard you fucked up. Heard you might have double-crossed us. And you know what? We don't like that. We don't like that at all."

"I've been on the squad a little too long for these bullshit hazing rituals," Martin snapped. "Let me go. I'm not in the mood."

She saw the punch coming, and ducked underneath Eisenberg's arm and drew her Glock in one smooth motion before shooting out the knee of the person immediately beside him—Ripley, who'd always hated her anyway. He went down and she stepped on him as she tried to vault over his body and out of the cluster of people, but it was no use; their hands were clawing at her, hands with calluses just like hers, hands she knew as intimately as she knew her own. She fired the Glock again and heard it strike flesh with a dull thud; again, and the bullet ricocheted off someone's bone and fell to the floor like a bloody silver pendant. Then there was Eisenberg's arm around her throat, choking the blood flow to her brain. She thought, _He won't kill me, not without interrogating me first._ As her vision went dark, her hands pointlessly scrabbling at his, she told herself, _I can handle this._ She thought it might even be true.

* * *

She woke up choking.

Blinded by the cloth over her face, strapped down naked to a sloping board, water pouring in great splashes over her face. Martin tried to scream on instinct and inhaled water, filling her mouth and sinuses with it. She flailed, but the straps were merciless and unforgiving—she'd wear bruises down her limbs and across her midsection later. If there was a later. She was drowning, drowning, spitting out the water but only choking on more, unable to see, unable to breathe, she was _dying_ —

Ruthlessly, she forced her mind under control. The haze from passing out hadn't cleared yet, but Martin knew it was only a matter of time. She also knew that she wouldn't die from this; waterboarding, when properly done—and this _was_ properly done, her squad were trained professionals—didn't kill. It only caused panic, caused you to break. And Martin wouldn't break. The fear was nothing to her, only her primate brain's irrational reaction to a stimulus. She would rise above it. They wanted her secrets? They'd have to try harder.

Perhaps they sensed her sudden calmness, because a few seconds later, the flow of water stopped, and they let Martin tilt her head to the side and hack out what felt like torrents of liquid. It mostly just sank into the cloth over her face, dripping disgustingly down her cheeks and chin, but it was better than having it in her body. She laid there and breathed carefully, the simple pattern they'd been taught to use in high-stress situations. Martin figured this qualified. She silently ran over the torture routine they'd learned in training: waterboarding, then electrocution, then isolation, sleep deprivation…she'd been through all that already. She knew she could handle it.

It was only then that she noticed the earplugs. ( _Not sharp, Martin, pay more attention,_ she told herself.) Noise-cancelling and specifically designed for shooting ranges, they were military-issue and familiar. And extremely difficult to shake loose. She could hear _nothing_ , nothing but the rasp of her own breathing. They could do anything to her and she wouldn't have any warning. Martin's breathing sped up again, verging on hyperventilation. _No,_ she told herself forcefully. _You don't give up that easily._

But it was excruciating to lay there in the dark, bound so tightly she could only move her fingers and feet, blind and deaf. Her other senses were maxed out, her skin breaking out in goosebumps at the slightest breeze (and was that the blow of breath across her stomach?), her nostrils flaring to catch any scents possible (nothing but the warm scent of flesh—she was in a closed room with people who had been sweating). She opened her mouth, as if to taste the air like a snake. And then huge hands closed over her face and jaw, prying it open with brute force. She felt her jaw pop and a flash of pain sped through her neck and spine like an electric shock. Then someone's hand was in her mouth, and Martin hissed and bit at the person's fingers, though to no avail; the man holding her jaw open (Eisenberg, she suspected, with those big hands) wouldn't let her budge. The other person got his fingers around her tongue and pulled, not as violently as she'd expected, but relentlessly, until her tongue was sticking out of her mouth like she was a panting dog. Then he clipped something to it, something just barely blunt enough to avoid piercing her tongue, and then someone else put matching clips on—

On her nipples, he manhandled her breasts, squeezing them roughly and pinching her nipples until they stood stiff and straight, and clipped them with the same kind of blunt clamp that they'd put on her tongue. She cried out and arched her back, pain shooting through her like a meteor, but when she moved, the chain connecting the tongue clamp and the nipple clamps pulled taut and only made the pain worse, a piercing agony that started where the clamps were and spread until the surrounding areas were aching dully. Someone twanged the connecting chain like a guitar string and she shrieked again, twisting in her bonds, though it only made the pain worse. This was _not_ a part of their training; this was nothing she'd been taught to do to prisoners. The squad was taking their own initiative.

The first coil of fear uncurled in her belly. They were off-script now; Martin didn't know what would come next.

The straps came off her legs; she could feel them flapping around her hips. Weakly, she tried to kick at her torturers—she was already beginning to lose track of them as _her squad_ —but her legs were pins and needles, and they only flopped against the board. Cruel hands grabbed her knees and pulled them apart, and she knew, she _knew,_ what was going to happen next. Rough fingers spread her open, and she braced for the invasion—she had been trained on how to deal with rape, in theory if not in practice—and then the fourth clamp bit down on her clit, and Martin _screamed._

She thrashed on the board, her head smacking against it as fire raced through her body. One of the earplugs dislodged slightly, and she could hear the dim sound of laughter. The clit clamp was connected to the nipple clamps too, and every twist of her body sent more excruciating bolts of pain darting through her, but she couldn't stop moving; her body was not listening to her commands, just twitching helplessly to escape the pain. It wasn't working.

"Stop!" she screamed, over and over. It did no good; they only laughed more, occasionally smacking her thighs and ass to see her jump more. Someone took out an earplug and said, "We'll stop when you tell us the identity of your handler."

"No," she hissed. More laughter.

"No problem," he said—this was Sawyer, who had been kind to her when she was first recruited. Her stomach twisted and nearly voided itself when she remembered the affectionate way he'd called her Martini, compared to this harsh amusement now. "We're having fun. Aren't we, boys?"

A chorus of affirmation. Then the water poured over her face again, and she began to realize that she might not get out of here alive after all.

Choking and coughing, she turned her head to the side and spluttered, "I want to see the General!"

Silence. The water ceased. She turned her face forward again and said hoarsely, "I want to see the General."

"Oh, _she wants to see the General_ —" Sawyer said in a mocking singsong voice, then there was the thud of a fist on flesh and Eisenberg said, "Shut the fuck up." A listening silence—they must be wearing their headsets—then he added, " _He_ wants to see her."

 _Oh, thank god._ The General would save her. He wouldn't be nice about it, she'd probably end up in prison, but he wouldn't let them hurt her like this. A rough hand removed the cloth from her face, and she gasped at the fresh air in relief, squinting against the light.

"Take those things off and stick her in solitary," Eisenberg was saying to the squad. "We'll give her a few hours to cool down, then bring her to him."

Not only would she see the General, but she would be free of the invasive clamps. The thought was nearly enough to make her muffle her squeaks of pain as the clamps were roughly yanked off. The one on her clit came off with a blinding flash of pain that made her suspect a part of her labia had torn, but it was better than the clamp. It was better than rape.

 _I'll be safe,_ she thought, knowing it deep in her heart. The idea that she was wrong never even crossed her mind. She would learn better soon.

* * *

When she was last put in solitary, several years ago in training, she had withstood it with the grim certainty that she would not break, despite the searing lights and ear-shattering shrieks they fed into the room via intercom. This time, it was much harder to summon that mindset, but she refused to let herself crack; the stakes were too high.

The solitary confinement room was institutional in design, white walls and ceiling and a rough concrete floor. They dragged her to it supported between two burly men, her toes scraping the ground as she kicked feebly to try and walk like a human. No luck; they threw her in like an animal. She landed on her belly, skinning her palms and knees, and quickly rolled onto her back, ready to spring to her feet if they came after her. But the door was shut and locked before she'd even made it to a supine position. The lights were blinding, piercing even through her eyelids; she held a hand up to block them. Then the screaming started, recorded shrieks piped into the room at 110 decibels, and even though she'd known it was coming, Martin cried out along with the recording and slapped her hands over her ears. The light cut into her eyes like knives; the screaming felt like it would make her ears bleed. Nothing helped.

 _You survived this before,_ she reminded herself, but was it this bad then? Her nipples, tongue, and clit all throbbed, her clit especially sore, though when she put her hand between her legs and looked at it, there was no blood. There was no respite from the concrete floor, either; no matter where in the small room she went, it scraped against her naked body and left marks in her skin. Finally, she curled up in the corner, propped against the wall, avoiding the floor as best she could, and cowered. Yes, she _cowered_ , and she hated knowing that they saw her like this, but what choice did she have? What else could she _do_?

"I'll see the General soon," she whispered, and clung to that spark of hope like a life preserver.

It took her several minutes to realize the room was growing colder, and quickly. This wasn't part of the standard routine, either—they were going off-script again, throwing her off her game—but she knew what to do. She wrung out her wet hair, leaving water spattered on the floor, and curled into a tighter ball to preserve body heat. Her breath frosted in the air, and convulsive shivers wracked her body. Hypothermia would set in any minute now, she knew. The screams were dizzying, the lights painful. This was the sort of thing that drove people mad. This was the sort of thing that killed them.

She thought she would rather take the rape over this.

The screaming stopped. It took her a moment to realize over the ringing in her ears. Then a voice came over the intercom, too staticky to determine whose it was: "Are you going to cooperate?"

Martin nodded. The camera would pick up on the movements.

The voice again, crueler this time, with an undercurrent of laughter. "Say please."

Martin tilted her head up and glared. There was low, indecipherable murmuring over the intercom, then it cut off. No screaming started. Blessed silence, except for the low moan of the heater kicking on. Martin thanked any listening gods and waited to thaw out.

Her internal clock told her that half an hour or so had passed before the door swung open. She raised her eyes to meet Eisenberg's. He was followed by two other men—Sawyer and Barnes, the latter holding a package—and a masked man carrying an M27.

"All this security for little old me?" she said. _Pretend you're okay. Pretend you're not close to the edge._ Her voice was hoarse. Had she been screaming? She couldn't remember.

"Shut up and stand up," Eisenberg said with scorn. "The General wants you dressed nicely, so that's what he's going to get."

Martin stood; there was no point in fighting. Her heart beat out the syllables of the General's name. He'd treat her right; he'd treat her _constitutionally_. Prison sounded pretty good right now. She reached for the package, which she assumed contained clothes, and Barnes put his hand on her chest and shoved her against the wall with a thud.

"Give me that," Eisenberg said, meaning the package. "Grab her arms."

Barnes and Sawyer obeyed, roughly slamming her arms against the wall. Eisenberg stood back and watched, his arms folded around the package as Martin's body was bared to him. She struggled instinctively, but it was useless; they were too strong.

"Look at that," Sawyer breathed, and tweaked a sore nipple. Martin bit down on a yelp, but couldn't stop the way she twitched. "Too bad we don't get a piece, huh?"

"There's always later," Eisenberg said lazily. "After the General sees her."

"He won't let you," Martin spat. Eisenberg had the gall to look surprised for a moment, then laughed.

"You have no idea what you're getting into," he said cryptically—because the General wouldn't hurt her, he _wouldn't_ , she was special—and tore open the package. "Let's get you suited up."

It _was_ a suit, the kind a secretary would wear: pencil skirt, matching blazer, white blouse. No bra or underwear. The blouse was silk, but it still caught on her nipples and made her eyes water. She squirmed when they shoved her into the skirt, hating the helplessness, hating how easily they moved her around like a doll, hating _them_ —her squad.

"You can put this on yourself," Eisenberg said magnanimously, holding out the blazer. She took it without meeting his eyes and shrugged into it. "Let's go."

"What about shoes?" she asked. Barnes snorted.

"You think we're going to trust _you_ with high heels?" he said, the edge of a mean laugh in his voice. "Yeah, right."

Martin had to concede that he was right. If she were handling a female captive, she wouldn't let her wear heels either; they were weapons in the right hands.

So she walked barefoot down the labyrinthine halls of the complex, halls she knew by heart. She was pathetically grateful that they let her walk this time instead of dragging her, and hated herself for it. How low would she sink before the end? _Not any lower,_ she vowed. _I'll keep my dignity._

"Here we are," Eisenberg said, stopping outside the metal door she recognized as the entrance to the General's office. "I'd say good luck, but…well, let's just say you don't deserve it."

"Traitor," Barnes hissed.

"I can't wait for sloppy seconds," Sawyer said contemplatively, and Martin didn't have time to wonder what that meant before the General opened the door and she was pushed inside, falling to her knees before her father.

* * *

The General was tall and rangy, thin-lipped, with a scar cutting across his temple and a pristine dress uniform: dark green fabric, white trim, and gold buttons. Martin had inherited his thick, tawny hair and deep brown eyes, though not his sharp jaw or his broad hands. Still on her knees, she glanced at her father from under her eyelashes, gauging his mood. He stood with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed, glaring down at her from his position leaning against the desk. Angry, but not violent. Of course, he'd never been violent with her before; she wasn't sure he'd have the heart to hurt her, whatever her crime. Emboldened, she raised her eyes to meet his and said, "General, I—"

He backhanded her across the face. Martin reeled and collapsed on the floor, cheek throbbing and eyes watering. With a trembling hand, she touched her lower lip; it was oozing blood. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and all she could think was, _He hit me._

"Vanessa, Vanessa, Vanessa," he said with a sigh. "What _are_ we going to do with you?"

"Sir," she managed, and pushed herself back to her knees. "Sir, I understand you're angry—"

" _Angry?_ " That was the voice she had always dreaded hearing when she was a child, the chilling whisper when he was too far gone into rage to yell. "Yes, Vanessa, you could say I'm _angry._ When my only child turns on me, on her _country,_ betrays everything I taught her to believe in? Why wouldn't I be angry?"

"Sir, you don't know what they were going to do to me," she said pleadingly, and held her hands out palm-up as if begging for alms. "They were torturing me, they were going to rape me—I'm your daughter. You won't let them do that."

Thoughtful silence. She waited with her hands out, her head tilted downward like a penitent before the relic of a saint, keeping her eyes on the wood floor. She traced the whorls of the wood with her gaze, pain pulsing in her cheek and all the abused parts of her, and stubbornly did not think about the slap. _He won't hurt me,_ she told herself, _not really._

It felt like a lie.

Finally, the General spoke.

"No," he said. "I won't let them do that to you."

Martin relaxed. Thank God, he was seeing sense—

Then a fist seized her hair and dragged her up to her feet, flinging her across his desk. Papers and picture frames went flying, and she screamed as he cruelly yanked her head back by her hair again. She kicked back with one foot, aiming for his knee, but he had trained her how to fight and knew her moves; he stepped out of the way, pinning her easily by the nape of her neck even as she struggled. Panic was rising in her, choking out common sense and the knowledge that he was her _father,_ he couldn't do anything terrible to her ( _all evidence to the contrary,_ a tiny, sane part of her mind said), and she kicked and flailed like a wild animal. Then something cold against her neck, right above her pulsing jugular vein. Martin went absolutely still. She recognized that touch: a combat knife.

_Oh God._

"I won't let them hurt you like that," the General continued, "because I'm going to do it first."

Martin had no words. The knife left her throat, though his hand remained clenched around her neck, strong and irresistible. She couldn't move her head, could only lay there with her face smashed against the desk, staring out to the side, as the knife gently traced down her leg and up her skirt, just barely cutting into the bare skin there, no deeper than a papercut. The knife was exquisitely sharp. She knew; she'd given it to him herself for his birthday four years ago.

"I'm sure you're thinking you can get out of this somehow," the General said softly, and turned the knife so its sharp edge was slicing into the material of her skirt instead. "That you can tell me your secrets, explain how the enemy managed to infiltrate our elite forces. And by all means, you can try. But it won't do anything."

Dread writhed inside her like snakes as the knife cut apart her skirt and started on her blouse. The sliced-up skirt clung to her hips for a minute as if preserving the last shreds of her dignity, then her father swatted it away, baring her ass and pussy to him.

"Very nice, Vanessa," he said approvingly, and Martin jerked under him.

"You can't—you're not going to—"

"Oh, but I am."

Betrayal filled her mouth like a bitter wine. Then he added, "Unless…"

 _Of course_ ; he was just trying to frighten her. There had to be a way out of this.

"Yes?" she whispered. "I'll do anything, Father, please—"

A hand took her thick hair in a fist and dragged backwards before she could get her legs under her, tipping her to the floor with a crash. She landed on her tailbone and a jolt of pain went up her spine before she fell on her side, naked and vulnerable before her father's eyes.

"Show me how sorry you really are," he said, and gestured to his shiny black boots. Martin stared up at him, then down at his feet again. Surely he couldn't mean—

"I'm running out of patience, Vanessa," he said, his voice tainted with that cold, cold anger.

 _Do it,_ she told herself, _it's only your dignity, not your life._ She inched forward and dipped her face to the floor, hesitantly pressing her lips to his left boot.

"Not good enough, Vanessa," he said, and she flinched. He'd always called her Martin in the past, had done so ever since she was recruited, and each instance of her given name was like an electric shock. It made her feel like a little girl again, being punished for disobedience.

_And isn't that what I am?_

"Sir," she whispered, "what am I doing wrong?"

"You've never been this stupid in the past," he said coolly, and lightly chucked her under the chin with his boot. "Clearly turning traitor on us hasn't improved your cognitive skills. Put your back into it, Vanessa, I want these boots clean."

Humiliation burned low in her gut. _Never,_ she wanted to say; _go fuck yourself_ were the words on her lips. She opened her mouth and licked his boot, her tongue slipping across the slick leather. Her father hummed in approval.

"Well done, Vanessa," he praised her. "Such a good girl. Do you know how long I've wanted to see you like this?"

She twitched, but kept licking, her tongue bumping over the laces. She couldn't imagine anything more subservient than this, crouched naked at her father's feet and licking his boots, anything more unlike Lieutenant Martin. Something in her mind pitched and fractured; she began to shiver, and not from the cold.

"On your knees, kissing my feet," he continued, and gently stroked her hair with one hand. She wanted to scream. "Your tight little body on display. Look at that ass, Vanessa. So round and firm. Do you know I'm going to do with your ass?"

She shook her head, not looking up. Lick, lick, lick. If she kept up the routine motion, she could ignore the tears burning in the corners of her eyes. Then the General grabbed her by the hair and dragged her head back, not caring about her sore scalp or the way she squeaked and thrashed her head around.

"I think you do know," he said. "Tell me what I'm going to do with your ass, Vanessa."

"Father, please—"

" _Vanessa._ "

She closed her eyes; the motion forced the tears to drip down her cheeks, even the defiance of not crying taken away from her. "You're going to fuck it, sir."

"Oh, I think we're a bit beyond the formalities, Vanessa. Why don't you call me what I am?"

Martin— _Vanessa_ —cast around wildly, wondering what he wanted, and at last set upon the word he might be looking for.

"You're going to fuck it, Father," she breathed, and wanted to vomit.

"Good girl," he said, pleased, and yanked her up to splay her out across the desk again. Vanessa's heartbeat throbbed in her ears and she turned her head to the side, trying to focus on anything but what was happening. A picture in a shattered frame, laying on the floor: a family photo of her, the General, and her dead mother. She had her mother's face, her plump lips, her narrow jaw. Was this why this was happening to her? Was this why he—he _wanted_ her like this?

The General kicked her legs open and smoothed his hands up her muscled thighs, parting the folds of her pussy. She made a high-pitched noise of distress, but didn't jerk her hips away; she was learning the rules of this game.

"Beautiful," he sighed, and dropped to his knees. On him, the gesture wasn't submissive, but dominant; his hands gripped her thighs hard, leaving bruises, forcing them apart, as he buried his face between her legs and began to lick and suck on her folds. Vanessa gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. Brief memories of former lovers flitted across her vision, men who had gone down on her out of affection and with the intent of giving pleasure. Those memories were tainted now, ruined by her father and his hot, seeking mouth bruising her delicate skin. He was making groaning noises of pleasure as he pushed his face harder against her, spreading her legs wider to get to her already-abused clit, sucking on it. Her body responded hollowly despite the pain, lubricating her vagina, but no pleasure sparked within her. Vanessa fixed her eyes on her mother's face in the photo and let him do it.

"So good, Vanessa," he said hoarsely. He'd gotten up at some point; she heard the sound of a zipper behind her and tensed. "My little girl. You taste so good. Are you going to be good for me?"

Vanessa said nothing. He smacked her ass and she jumped.

"Yes, Father," she said, a horrified little moan cutting off the last syllable. She gripped the edges of the desk hard, digging her nails into the varnished wood, hoping for splinters to dig into her palms and fingers. Anything to take her mind away from what was going to happen, what she couldn't stop from happening—

He pushed the head of his cock into her spit-covered pussy, not even bothering with fingering her to prepare her for him. Vanessa went stiff and tried to clamp down on him out of instinct, her body doing what it could to protect itself, but he was relentless, pushing harder despite her resistance. Flesh gave with a sharp burning sensation; she couldn't tell if he'd torn her or not. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly against the desk. Strange whimpering noises were coming from somewhere. Her own throat? Couldn't be. But it was, _she_ was making those noises, she was gasping, "Father, please, stop, I can't, don't—"

He pulled out, and for the briefest second, she thought she'd gotten through to him. Then he thrust back in with a grunt, as hard as he could, and again, and again.

"Just wet enough to feel good," he said between groans. "But I bet it doesn't feel very good for you. How do you like this, Vanessa? Was it worth betraying your country for this?"

His body slammed against hers; she'd be wearing bruises along her pelvis where his hips were hitting. His balls slapped against her pussy in a way that would've been erotic with any other partner, in a situation where she had the control and it didn't _hurt_.

"Christ, you're tight," he gasped. "Such a good little fuck. Tell me how much you like it, Vanessa."

The words came out of Vanessa's mouth, dull and toneless. "I like it."

He snorted. "You know what, little girl? I don't care if you do. All I care about—" a grunt and a thrust, his cock dragging against her, shooting pains darting through her stomach. "—is getting a taste—of this pussy."

Tears blurred her vision; she couldn't look at the picture of her mother anymore. He groaned loudly and pulled out, and she waited tensely for him to spill all over her back—he wouldn't be idiotic enough to come in her, when she wasn't on birth control, could he?

"Checked out your file before I had you brought here, Vanessa. You're not on birth control," he said, eerily echoing her thoughts. He put his hand in the center of her back and pushed down, pinning her against the desk like a butterfly to a piece of corkboard. The pressure of his hand felt like a spike as he leaned over her, breathing in her ear, "What do you think about carrying your daddy's baby?"

Vanessa had thought she was numb. Now she realized she wasn't.

"Please no," she begged, tears leaking from her eyes. "Please don't do that, please don't make me, anything but that—"

"Anything?" He sounded supremely self-satisfied.

"Anything!"

"Well then." He ran his hand along her pussy, slick with blood and his own pre-come, and repeated, " _Well_ then. I know what we're going to do. Remember what you told me earlier?"

_You're going to fuck it, Father._

"Oh no," Vanessa breathed, and rapidly changed her mind. Pregnancy was an off-chance; this was a certainty. "Oh no, please don't do that. I'd rather you come in me, I'll carry your baby for you, please don't touch me there—"

"It's too late, Vanessa." His hands were pulling her open, baring her asshole, and he spat on it for a little lubrication. "You don't have a choice anymore."

Then his cock, pressing against the rim of her hole, and oh, she'd thought she'd known pain when he'd raped her pussy, but that was nothing compared to this. Vanessa bit through her lip to keep from crying out as she felt her skin tear, but when the muscles finally gave and he pushed fully inside, sheathing himself to the base in her ass, her back arched and she screamed.

"What a pretty ass you have," her father said, his voice gone hoarse with lust. He gripped her ass and spread it wide, giving himself more room to thrust. "I had no idea it'd been this huge. Can't believe—can't believe I haven't done this before, you pretty thing, I've been dying to get a piece of this for a long time—"

Nothing could distract her from this excruciating pain—no splinters, no photo, nothing. There was no escape to a dreamland for her, or disassociation like she'd read about. There was only the grunting, awful truth of her father, a man she'd loved and trusted her entire life, raping her. Raping _her_. She scrambled for the righteousness that had filled her when she first agreed to smuggle secrets to the enemy, the strength that had coursed through her when she survived the waterboarding and isolation, and found nothing. The physical sensations felt magnified beyond belief: the scrape of his cock inside her, the blood trickling down her thighs, his hands bruising her hips, the heavy weight of his body pinning her down, his hot, wet breath panting words of praise in her ear. She remembered the pride in his voice when she'd graduated at the top of her class, and couldn't help but compare it with what she was hearing now. It was almost worse than the rape itself.

Finally, _finally,_ he tensed and gasped and collapsed against her. She felt a wet stickiness leak out of her as he pulled out, a grotesque sensation like slugs against her skin. Her ass and pussy were stars of pain in an already-aching body. Limply, she slid to the floor, her legs giving up on the task of standing without her father pinning her down.

"That was very nicely done, Vanessa," her father said soothingly, and petted her hair. She flinched away from his touch, and he chortled. "You'll do well in prison."

Then he stepped away. Vanessa had no idea where he was going—surely he'd want to clean her up first, before he called the authorities—and then she heard him say, "Boys? It's your turn." She heard the voices of her squad, laughing and cat-calling as their heavy tread heralded their entrance into the office.

Vanessa thought, _I want to die._ Then the squad surrounded her.

After that, she didn't think much at all.


End file.
